IN  MEMORIAM. 


A  TRIBUTE  OF  RESPECT 

TO  THE  MEMORY 

OF  THE 

Deceased  Soldiers  ofAdams 
County,  Ohio. 


AAT  ADDRESS 

BY  CAPTAIN  N.  W.  EVANS. 

Delivered  at  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  West  Union,  Ohio, 
September  2nd,  1865. 


(  KEPUULISHED  I 


PORTSMOUTH,  O. 

I'OKTSMOUTH  TRIBUNE  PRINT.  TMO.  as  GALLIA  ST. 


1902 


PUBLISHED  BY  REQUEST 

AM) 

RESPECTFULLY  INSCRIBED 

TO 

THE  RETURNED  SOLDIERS 

OP 


ADAMS  COUNTY.  OHIO. 


IX  MEMORIAM. 


The  French  are  a  Godless  people.  They  pay  no  regard  to 
the  Sabbath*  On  that  day  they  visit  their  cemeteries:  they 
make  them  neat  and  beautiful,  and  they  deck  the  graves  of  their 
friends  with  flowers.  We  Americans  are  a  Christian  people. 
We  respect  the  Sabbath.  Our  cemeteries  are  too  often  grown 
up  with  weeds  and  briers.  The  graves  are  neglected,  dilapi¬ 
dated,  forgotten.  Let  us  imitate  the  good  and  beautiful  where- 
ever  we  see  them.  Let  us,  on  this  occasion,  scatter  a  few  flowers 
over  the  graves  of  our  dead  heroes. 

The  war  has  been  finished  honorably,  successfully,  gloriously. 
Our  running  account  with  the  war  god  has  been  closed,  and  we 
can  now  compute  the  financial  debt  we  have  accumulated  for 
ourselves  and  posterity.  But  we  owe  still  another  debt — a 
greater  debt — to  the  soldiers  who  have  fought  for  us.  It  is  a 
debt  of  gratitude.  Let  us,  for  a  little  while,  lay  aside  the  in¬ 
cessant  topic  of  dollars  and  cents,  and  talk  of  this  other  debt. 
We  owe  much  to  Grant  and  Sherman,  but  let  them  rest  for  a 
short  space  from  the  persecutions  of  a  hero  worshiping  people, 
and  let  us  pay  our  respects  to  those  lesser  lights,  the  common 
soldiery,  who  bore  the  brunt  of  our  campaigns  and  battles,  and 
who  won  our  victories  for  us.  Let  it  not  be  said  the  Americans 
are  ungrateful.  The  debt  of  gratitude  we  owe  the  survivors 
we  can,  in  a  great  measure,  pay  them  and  their  posterity.  But 
of  the  dead?  De  mortuis  »'ihil  nisi  bonum.  Let  us  scatter 
flowers  on  their  graves. 


4 


The  Romans,  in  speaking  of  the  demise  of  their  friends 
never  permitted  it  to  be  said,  “oberunt,”  or  “pevicrunt,” 
“they  are  dead,”  “they  have  perished;”  but  they  whisper  sol¬ 
emnly  to  each  other ;  “Non  sunt,”  “they  are  not;”  thus  in  two 
words  declaring  their  belief  in  the  immortality  of  the  soul  and 
a  future  existence.  They  said:  “Our  friends  exis-t  no  longer 
here,”  implying,  more  strongly  than  an  express  declaration,  that 
they  did  exist  elsewhere  and  under  other  conditions.  A  sa¬ 
credness  and  dignity  invest  the  character  and  life  when  once 
the  angel  of  death  has  set  his  seal  on  them.  Let  us  respect  that 
sacredness  and  dignity  as  much  as  the  ancient  pagans  did.  Let 
it  not  be  said  of  our  fallen  heroes,  “they  have  died,”  “they  have 
perished,”  but  let  us  whisper  reverentially,  “They  are  not.” 

Our  unreturning  heroes  are  not  dead  !  They  have  not  per¬ 
ished,  become  annihilated.  They  live  as  truly  and  as  veritably 
today  as  that  instant  before  the  angel  of  the  sepulchre  claimed 
them  as  his  own. 

‘•There  are  no  dead  !  The  stars  go  down 
.*  To  rise  upon  some  fairer  shore, 

And  bright  in  Heaven’s  jeweled  crown 
They  shine  forever  more. 

And  ever  near  us,  though  unseen, 

The  dear  immortal  spirits  tread. 

For  all  the  boundless  universe 
Is  life.  There  are  no  dead.” 

They  live  in  our  memories,  and  they  dwell  in  the  elysium  of 
heroes.  Our  brothers  fell  in  the  Vigor  of  manhood.  To  us, 
they  will  ever  flourish  in  immortal  vigor.  They  will  never  pass 
through  the  different  phases  of  mortality,  grow  old,  and  lapse  to 
the  grave  by  reason  of  the  decay  of  their  faculties,  but  will  ever 
remain  to  us  as  they  fell — noble,  manly  souls — immortal  men. 

Those  men,  dead  and  living,  who  fought  so  gallantly  at  Shi¬ 
loh,  Perryville,  Stone  river,  Chickamauga,  Atlanta,  Nashville  and 


o 


on  other  fields,  east  as  well  as  west,  let  us  consider  characters. 
Let  us  view  impartially  what  they  did,  and  then  let  the  infer¬ 
ences  follow  of  themselves.  A  word  introductory.  We  have 
to  consider  only  their  acts.  We  have  nothing  to  do  with  their 
motives.  We  have  no  authority,  either  human  or  divine,  to 
challenge  the  motives  that  caused  any  man  to  enter  the  army. 
We  have  neither  the  right,  nor  the  ability  to  tear  away  the  veil 
before  the  penetralia  of  the  immortal  spirit,  and  to  disclose  its 
mysterious  workings.  That  is  the  province  of  its  author.  He 
alone  is  judge  of  the  hidden  springs  of  human  action.  Motives 
belong  only  to  Him.  Actions,  res  factae,  thingsrpast  and  done 
are  onrs  to  interpret,  to  judge,  to  approve  or  condemn.  To  such 
we  confine  ourselves. 

Many  of  our  heroes  were  young  men.  They  were  inspired 
with  noble  hopes,  lofty  desires,  and  grand  ambitions.  The 
Canaan  of  the  new  world  was  their  heritage.  Time  was  theirs 
in  which  to  achieve,  in  which  to  accomplish.  All  things  were 
before  them.  The  paths  of  glory  opened  on  every  side.  The 
dazzling  crowns  of  honors,  dignities,  and  riches  waited  to  be 
claimed.  In  the  luminous  vistas  of  the  future  they  saw  their 
aspirations  realized.  Youth  stole  into  the  studio  of  Time, 
seized  the  pencil  of  Fancy,  and  on  the  virgin  canvas  of  the 
future,  depicted  scenes  not  unworthy  of  its  ardent  and  impetu¬ 
ous  genius.  Here  the  young  man  had  attained  the  acme  of  his 
hopes.  Lovely  women  were  smiling  on  him  and  crowning  him 
with  wreaths  of  immortelles.  His  fellow  citizens  stood  around, 
proud  to  honor  him.  There  he  was  in  gladsome  home.  A 
charming  ideal,  a  womanly  divinity,  radiant  with  the  approving 
glances  of  affection,  was  by  his  side.  Little  cherubs  clustered 
about  his  knees.  The  sky  was  the  purest  cerulean;  the  air 
was  odorous  with  rich  perfume  and  intoxicating  with  delight: 
the  birds  warbled  divinely,  and  the  sunlight  itself  was  elixir. 
He  had  stolen  the  joys  of  paradise  and  brought  them  back  to 
earth.  But  hark!  the  booming  of  cannon  waked  the  dreamer 


from  his  reverie.  It  was  the  cannon  of  Sumter.  Destiny 
rushed  in.  and.  with  the  brush  of  Prophesy,  obliterated  the  fair 
scenes  in  the  lire  and  smoke  >f  bittle.  There,  in  the  deep 
solitude  of  a  southern  forest,  under  the  weeping  cypress,  she 
painted  a  neglected  tumulus,  a  nameless  grave.  Oh,  the  cruel 
mockery  of  ambition!  the  bitter  draught  of  fate!  But  our 
youthful  heroes  were  not  appalled.  The  blood  of  revolutionary 
fathers  coursed  in  their  veins.  They  saw  the  storm  approaching, 
and  bared  their  bosoms  to  meet  it.  The  crisis  demanded  sac¬ 
rifices.  They  plucked  from  their  hearts  each  fond  hope,  each 
cherished  ambition.  It  wa«  not  enough.  They  tore  those 
bleeding  hearts  from  their  breasts,  and  laid  them  warm  and 
reeking  on  the  altar  of  country.  They  bestowed  one  last  lin¬ 
gering  thought  on  those  bright  visions  of  beauty  and  of  glory 
that  had  so  lately  spread  out  before  them  and  invited  them  on. 
and  turned  away  and  died ;  died  w  ithout  a  tear,  a  murmur,  or 
a  regret.  What  for?  To  give  us  and  our  descendants  a  united, 
a  happy,  an  illustrons  country.  They  left  no  progency  to  per¬ 
petuate  their  glorious  names  and  more  glorious  deeds.  The 
Republic  shall  be  their  child  !  She  shall  embalm  their  memory 
and  their  heroism  and  hand  them  down  to  her  latest  hour.  The 
walls  of  Thebes  sprang  up  to  the  sound  of  the  lyre  of  Amphion. 
When  our  country  shall  chant  the  funeral  dirge  of  her  fallen^ 
sons,  walls  shall  spring  up  about  her  which  the  tyrants  of  the 
combined  world  shall  not  he  able,  to  breach. 

Others  fell  in  the  meridian  of  manhood.  Their  hopes  in  life, 
had.  in  some  measure,  been  realized.  They  had  pleasant  homes, 
cheerful  firesides,  loving  wives,  affectionate  children.  They 
were  endeared  to  community  by  all  that  makes  life  agreeable 
and  happy.  Their  country  called  them.  T.iey  sundered  the 
silken  cords  of  affection;  they  staked  human  interests,  social 
ties,  and  life  itself,  on  the  single  throw  of  a  die — and  lost;  lost 
for  themselves,  hut  won  for  posterity.  They  left  their  homes 
and  sought  and  found  a  soldier’s  sepulchre  in  a  hostile  land. 


li  .  !i-  -  -A..  .  ■ 

Those  homes  are  now  desolate;  their  light  has  been  extinguished; 
Those  wives  are  draped  in  mourning;  those  children  are  in  tears. 
The  agony  of  despair  has  seized  the  bereaved  ones;  their 
bright  world  has  £j$en  turned  to  a  bleak  and  gloomy  waste. 
Henceforth  they  will  pass  solemnly  and  mournfully  among  us. 
The  human  soul  has  its  tendrils  as  well  as  the  vine.  It  will 
cling  to  the  nearest  and  noblest  thing  it  can  make  its  own.  Let 
the  oak  be  riven  by  the  thunder  blast;  the  vine  will  fall  to  the 
ground;  its  life  will  thenceforth  be  imperfect,  dwarfed,  stunted. 
It  shrinks  from  observation,  and  withers  away.  The  cypress 
ma hung  at  almost  every  door.  Wnile  wre  honor  the  fallen, 
let  ,u«  uncover  ourselves  in  the  presence  of  the  mourners. 

'Others  were  hoary-headed  sires,  aged  and  reverend  fathers. 
The  sun  of  their  lives  had  arisen  in  peace;  it  set  in  blood.  They 
had  lived  for  their  country  ;  there  remained  but  for  them  to  die: 
they  died  for  it.  They  had  seen  and  known  the  compatriots  of 
Washington,  LaFayette,  Adams,  Hamilton,  Jefferson.  They 
had  caughi  the  inspiration  of  these  men.  The  divine  afflatus 
had  descended  on  them.  Their  lives  had  been  one  long  tes¬ 
timonial  in  favor  of  their  fatherland.  That  testimonial 
was  almost  complete.  It  lacked  but  the  seal.  They  sealed  it 
with  their  blood,  and  “they  are  not.”  Let  us  believe  their  pure 
spirits  rest  in  the  bosom  of  God.  O,  blessed  souls  of  our  white- 
haired  martyrs,  look  down  from  your  thrones  in  bliss,  and  let 
your  unction  descend  on  your  unworthy  children! 

These  young,  middle  aged,  and  hoary  martyrs  for  liberty  faced 
death  for  us.  They  placed  their  bodies,  a  living  barrier,  be¬ 
tween  us  and  the  bullets  and  bayonets  of  a  cruel  foe.  What  is 
death?  We  can  readily  comprehend  its  physical  phenomena, 
but  what  is  that  terrible,  solemn  mystery  which  appals  human¬ 
ity?  from  which  the  boldest  involuntarily  shrinks? 

“Dying  is  nothing  ;  ’tis  this  we  fear, 

To  be  we  know  not  what,  we  know  not  where.” 

Death  is  the  door  which  opens  into  another  w  orld — -a  world 


8 


which  the  strongest  ray  of  human  light  has  not  yet  been  able 
to  penetrate.  No  Columbus  can  discover  it  to  us.  God  holds- 
the  impenetrable  curtain.  When  he  lifts  it  we  shall  see.  Not 
before.  Tell  me  not  that  the  gra  ve  does  not  suggest  horrors  in¬ 
stinctively.  What  mean  the  thousands  of  medicines,  nostrums, 
and  panaceas,  for  preserving  and  for  continuing  life?  Why 
are  the  doors  and  blinds  on  our  watercrafts  hung  on  open 
hinges?  What  mean  the  life  preserver?  Why  did  Ponce  de 
Leon  seek  the  fountain  of  youth?  Why  is  every  medicinal 
spring  in  the  country  crowded  with  healthseekers?  Why  do 
you  shudder  at  that  “dry,  slight  c'imgh?”  Why  do  you  scan 
the  heavens,  examine  the  grounds,  gauge  the  atmosphere,  before 
going  abroad?  Ah!  that  trifling  cold,  the  insidious  harbinge1' 
of  pulmonary  consumption!  Why  do  you  involuntarily  tremble 
in  the  presence  of  that  livid  face,  those  glassy  eyes,  those  pale 
lips?  You  perceive  your  own  fate  written  in  unmistakable 
characters  in  those  melancholy  features.  You  recognize  the 
mark  of  death.  You  know  that  seal  is  yours  also. 

The  consciousness  th  at  we  are  inevitably  to  grapple,  singly 
and  hopelessl}7,  with  the  “king  of  terrors that,  without  pilot* 
compass,  or  even  friendly  star,  we  must  embark  on  a  pathless, 
shoreless  ocean,  from  whose  bosom  no  traveler  has  ever  returned, 
from  over  whose  waters  no  “angel  whispers”  have  ever  told  us 
aught  of  the  fate  of  former  voyagers;  that  we  must  meet  an 
unknown  God,  face  to  face,  and  account  for  the  “deeds  done  in 
the  body  the  solemn  and  awful  thought  that  we  must  stand 
revealed  in  the  presence  of  the  Sovereign  who  guides  the  uni¬ 
verse,  who  is,  “a  consuming  tire,”  who  holds  the  lightning  in 
His  hands,  who  controls  the  devastating  hurricane,  the  raging 
ocean,  the  heaving  earthquake,  the  burning  mountain,  in  whose 
power  wo  are  “like  clay  in  the  hands  of  the  potter,”  and  by  the 
single  breath  of  whose  nostrils  we  might  be  annihilated — this 
is  the  “sting  of  death;”  this  is  the  invisible  spectre  which  is  ever 
following,  chasing,  and  pursuing  us.  and  from  which  we  are 


9 


•sever  fleeing,  but  never  escaping.  Our  heroes  met  and  submitted 
lo  this  terrible  affair  of  death  for  us.  They  said:  “It  is  neces¬ 
sary  for  us  to  do  our  duty;  it  is  not  necessary  that  we  should 
live.v  They  not  only  met  death  for  us;  they  not  only  endured 
it  camly,  stoically,  heroically ;  but  they  sought  it,  they  courted 
it,  they  caressed  it,  they  toyed  with  it,  they  despised  its  pangs 
and  mocked  its  terrors.  They  did  not  ask  its  “tender  mercies.” 
They  sought  it  in  all  its  forms;  withering,  scorching,  blighting 
diseases;  the  horrible  mangling  of  cannon  balls,  the  excruciating 
laceration  of  grape,  the  speedy  death  of  the  bullet,  putrefaction 
•of  wounds,  thirst  on  the  battle  field,  starvation  in  prison,  famine 
and  pestilence.  This  is  for  country.  Men  of  former  times  have 
•attained  such  heights  of  heroism.  They  could  not  have  attained 
higher.  The  Athenian  patriot  needed  but  to  display  his  shat¬ 
tered  arm  to  electrify  all  Attica ;  the  deeds  of  these  men  need 
but  to  be  mentioned  to  set  the  country  in  one  conflagration  of 
patriotism.  • 

We  might  institute  comparisons  ;  we  might  cite  examples  of 
ancient  heroes  and  patriots;  we  might  draw  parallels  between 
our  heroes  and  those  of  former  times.  We  could  do  nothing- 
more.  We  could  not  show  anything  in  excess,  on  the  part  of 
former  generations.  If  there  be  any  difference  it  is  in  our  favor. 

The  Dutch  republicans,  the  English  roundheads,  the  French 
revolutionists,  fought  by  the  aid  of  a  light  that  “shone  through 
a  glass  darkly.”  The  day  of  liberty  was  but  dawning  for  them. 
Light  had  not  yet  dispelled  the  dark  clouds  of  fanaticism,  big¬ 
otry,  hatred,  and  intolerance.  They  caught  the  gleams  of  reason 
but  occasionally,  but  fitfully.  They  fought  in  the  dark.  The 
natural  instinct  for  liberty  implanted  in  the  human  soul  was 
their  guide,  their  prompter.  Our  heroes  fought  in  the  light  of 
at  full  blaze  of  a  meridian  sun.  Their  patriotism  was  not 
hatred,  bigotry,  fanaticism;  it  was  reason,  conscience.  They 
saw  the  end  from  the  beginning;  they  had  calculated  the  cost; 
they  admitted  no  doubtful  issue. 


10  - 

In  the  spring  of  1863  there  was  a  lull  in  the  contest.  The 
champions  of  truth  and  error  paused  for  breath.  The  army  had 
met  the  shock  of  the  enemy,  had  received  it,  but  had  not  re¬ 
pelled  it.  They  had  not  faltered  or  wavered;  they  had  held 
their  ground.  Some  of  the  people  of  the  North  began  to  hesi¬ 
tate,  to  doubt,  to  waver.  The  Medusa  of  disaffection  reared  her 
horrid  head,  covered  with  snaky  tresses;  the  timid  began  to  be 
petrified;  it  was  an  hour  of  despondency,  of  darkness  and  gloom. 

Then  Company  D,  Twenty-fourth  Ohio,  spake  forth  from  the 
gloom.  It  seemed  the  voice  of  men  about  to  die.  Their  tones 
partook  of  that  fearful  solemnity  and  terrible  earnestness  of 
those  who  speak  from  the  portals  of  the  tomb.  It  was 

“Resolved,  That  though  we  deeply  regret  the  existence  of  the 
stern  necessity  that  called  us  from  the  fond  pursuits  and  happy  as¬ 
sociations  of  civil  life,  we  will  not  exchange  the  military  for  the 
civil  until  we  have  conquered  a  peace,  and  the  stars  and  stripes 
are  permitted  to  float  from  the  dome  of  every  capitol  in  the  South.’ * 

This  resolution  was  sublime.  Every  man  of  the  company 
subscribed  it.  It  was  one  of  many.  The  example  will  serve 
for  the  whole  army.  Dryden,  Ogle,  Guthridge,  Adamson’ 
Tolle,  Thompson,  Thomas,  Shultz,  Crawford  and  Pointer  died 
that  this  resolution  might  be  accomplished.  This  same  spirit 
animated  these  men  when  they  enlisted;  it  sustained  and  sup¬ 
ported  them  in  the  hour  of  battle;  it  was  the  terrible  death 
dealing  energy  of  their  powder;  it  was  the  force  of  their  bullets, 
the  power  of  their  bayonets;  it  made  the  death  of  those  that 
died  glorious,  the  lives  of  those  that  lived  sublime. 

Adams  county  honors  all  her  soldier  sons.  When  they  tri¬ 
umphed  she  felt  a  thrill  of  joy ;  when  they  fell  she  experienced  a 
pang  of  grief.  But  she  felt  a  peculiar  interest  in  Company  D, 
They  were  her  offering  of  first  fruits,  her  earliest  sacrifice  for 
country.  The  echoes  of  Sumter  had  not  died  aw  ay  till  that  com¬ 
pany  was  in  the  field.  They  wrere  our  first  ebullition  of  patriotism. 
Their  dead  were  the  first-born  of  liberty.  They  were  the  van- 
gaurd  of  Adams  county’s  little  army  of  heroes.  Honor  them ! 
Honor  the  whole  army!  Their  laurels  will  never  fade.  They 


11 


will  ever  remain  perfect  green,  unfaded  as  if  newly  plucked, 
fresh  as  if  wet  with  the  morning  dew.  Their  deeds,  acts  of 
immortality,  can  not  die.  The  fields  where  they  fought  and 
fell  will  be  the  theme  of  song  and  story. 

If  there  be  an  elysium  for  heroes,  McFerren  is  there!  Ellis 
is  there!  Summers,  Clark,  Dryuen,  Thomas,  Bailey,  Potter, 
Pttn tenney,  Parrish,  Shultz,  Crawford  and  their  comrades  in 
arms  are  there!  They  wear  crowns  of  victory.  Arm-in-arm 
they  walk  there  in  glory.  When  the  spirits  of  these  men  went 
up,  the  angels  folded  their  wings  and  dropped  their  harps  to 
listen  to  their  story.  Farewell,  shades  of  departed  heroes!  Rest 
in  the  isles  of  the  happy!  Farewell,  fallen  brothers!  When 
“life’s  fitful  fever  shall  be  o’er,”  there,  in  that  celestial  country, 
we  shall  meet  you  once  more. 

And  the  survivors?  What  of  them?  They  have  returned, 
bronzed  by  the  fierce  heat  and  fire  of  many  battles.  They  have 
brought  their  honorable  credentials — their  scars — many  of  them 
disabled  for  life.  They  constitute  ihe  glorious  church  of  heroes. 
They  have  received  the  baptism  of  blood  on  a  score  of  battle 
fields.  They  have  returned  to  us  from  the  jaws  of  destruction, 
from  the  “mouth  of  hell.”  They  danced  at  the  high  carnival 
of  Death ;  they  sat  at  his  banquet;  they  drank  his  health  and 
dashed  their  goblets  in  his  face.  They  have  fought  the  demons 
of  darkness,  and  the  deadly  arrows  have  hurtled  harmlessly 
from  their  armor.  They  have  entered  the  “valley  of  the  shadow 
of  death,”  plucked  the  “olive  branch  of  peace,”  and  brought  it 
back  to  us.  They  have  earned  the  gratitude  of  unborn  millions; 
they  have  crowned  themselves  with  eternal  honors.  Since  they 
have  passed  through  the  ordeal  of  fire,  and  blood,  and  leaden 
death,  privation  and  pestilence,  they  seem  to  belong  to  a  higher 
ord  *r  of  beings.  Since  their  return  from  the  Sinais  of  the  Re¬ 
public,  where  the  Lord  of  hosts  spake  great  truths  amid  the 
thunders  of  battle,  their  faces  seem  to  shine  with  a  sacred  light. 
We  would  do  well  to  heed  their  teachings. 

There  are  some  wearing  the  guise  of  men,  who,  throughout 


12 


the  course  of  the  war,  watched  the  bleeding  agonies  of  their 
country  with  indifference  and  contempt.  Since  the  return  of 
the  soldiers,  the  human  jackals  have  attempted  to  defame  and 
villify  their  characters.  We  have  not  words  of  indignation 
strong  enough  for  such  men.  Paris  Spinello.  the  great  Tuscan 
painter,  once  painted  Lucifer  in  so  hideous  a  manner  that  the 
contemplation  of  the  picture  rendered  him  a  maniac.  If  the 
character  of  these  harpies  of  mankind  could  be  depicted  in  all 
its  revolting  features,  indignation  and  wrath  would  make  us 
insane.  Such  men  would  have  plucked  the  spears  from  the 
Roman  soldiers  that  they  might  have  pierced  the  body  of  our 
crucified  Lord.  They  would  erase  the  epitaphs  on  the  monu¬ 
ments  of  our  fallen  heroes,  and  would  write  their  own  blas¬ 
phemy  thereon.  They  would  unearth  those  sacred  ashes  and 
scatter  them  to  the  four  winds.  They  would  dance  in  baccha¬ 
nalian  orgies  on  the  grave  of  Liberty.  They  would  shame  the 
prince  of  devils,  usurp  his  throne,  and  drive  him  to  hide  his 
blushes  in  the  deepest  and  darkest  hell  in  the  universe. 

Soldiers!  Comrades  in  arms!  Repose  on  your  hard  earned 
laurels.  Enjoy  the  peace  you  have  won  so  nobly.  Your  friends 
are  legion.  Time  is  a  great  arbiter.  It  will  do  you  justice. 
These  calumnies  will  die.  Another  generation  will  not  repeat 
them.  You  will  be  loved  and  revered  when  these  calumniators 
shall  have  filled  drunkards’  and  felons’  graves.  When  you 
shall  have  become  grey  haired  and  venerable  fathers  and  shall 
walk  with  tottering  limbs  on  the  brink  of  life,  the  children, 
and  young  men  and  maidens  will  cluster  around  you  to  listen 
to  your  wonderful  story.  All  men  will  honor  you.  They  will 
rise  up  before  you.  As  you  pass  along  the  street  they  will  point 
you  out  and  say  :  “That  man  was  at  Stone  river.”  “This  man 
fought  at  Gettysburg  ”  “He  was  at  Mission  Ridge.”  “lie  was 
with  Sherman.”  “He  was  a  soldier  for  the  Union.”  And  when 
you  shall  have  been  gathered  to  your  fathers  in  peace,  full  of 
years  and  of  honors,  the  sons  of  God  shall  unite  with  the  sons  of 
men  in  singing  your  requium. 


